How Dean loved Sam

Sam loved Dean. Dean loved Sam. They would do anything for each other. They were brothers, after all. But then again, they were also more than just brothers.

Dean took care of Sam. He was Dean's kid. Sam was more of Dean's kid than he was ever John's. Sam was Dean's world. His whole existence revolved around Sam. His every thought was related to Sam.

That's just how Dean was wired.

'You have to look after Sammy, Dean.'

'Take care of your brother, Dean.'

'Sam's your responsibility, Dean.'

'You're his big brother, Dean.'

'Sam needs you, Dean.'

Those were the words he grew up hearing. Those were the commands he grew up obeying.

For Dean, everything was Sam. There was no in between.

For Sam, though, not everything was Dean. It's not like Sam was selfish. No, Sam wasn't selfish at all. He was kind, passionate, sweet, intelligent, and downright, the most adorable kid any mother could wish for their daughter. Sam cared for people, and he really cared for Dean. For Sam, Dean was his older brother, his protector, his educator, and his friend.

But he wasn't his world.

That's why, even though Dean's face and voice was the last thing Sam's mind conjured as he put a gun to his head, the image wasn't enough to make him discontinue his actions.

Sam's world was his own.

And the day he realized that he could not escape his life by going to Stanford, that he could not escape his father's anger, that he could not escape the helplessness he felt, Sam Winchester thought nothing better than to blow a hole through his own grapefruit.

That's how Dean found Sam. His little brother was laying on the carpet of a cheap motel room, half of his head missing from the original chunk. His blood adding a decorative color to the otherwise uninteresting room.

But Sam was Dean's world.

It is impossible to live without one's world, so Dean Winchester had no choice.

Two days later, John Winchester knew he had failed as a father.

For some reason I've always liked when Sam is hurt or suicidal and Dean's really affected by that. Maybe I should feel remorseful after literally killing off these two brothers, but, surprisingly, I don't. It might be that working in an environment with mostly sick people is making me hard of heart.

If Kripke were ever to hand the writer's right to me, (Which will never happen, because come on, writing is just a hobby for me) I would probably end up hurting the boys even more than they already are.